To Get Mr Holmes
by HiM'e'iTSu
Summary: Working with Sherlock Holmes was difficult enough, but saving Mycroft Holmes's life and fighting his attraction to the man was a near impossible task. Still, DI Lestrade decided that he had nothing to complain about. Lestrade/Mycroft
1. Getting Dirty With Mr Holmes

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock does not belong to me.

**Beta:** OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

**A/N: **The story takes place before the start of the TV show. The characters are years younger here, both a little impulsive and expressive, inexperienced. So they are in some way different from the way we are used to seeing them.

I guess I took liberties with Lestrade's duties and credentials as the DI. Sorry about that.

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><p><em>Working with Sherlock Holmes was difficult enough, but saving Mycroft Holmes's life and fighting his attraction to the man was a near impossible task. Still, DI Lestrade decided that he had nothing to complain about.<em>

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><p><strong>~ To Get Mr. Holmes ~<br>**

_**Chapter 1. Getting Dirty With Mr. Holmes**_

Sergeant Donavan cringed, pressing one hand to her mouth, but did not look away from the body. Anderson was crouching over it, one knee in the dirt, examining fierce bloody wounds impartially. Lestrade observed them from the side so that he could still have Sherlock Holmes in the line of his vision. The man was more like an insolent child and, since a couple of cases ago, Lestrade's personal problem. It was problematic to keep him away; he was near impossible to control and difficult to deal to with. On the upside though, his input was invaluable, any mystery was a game to him, a puzzle to solve to pass the time. It was irritating and admirable at the same time how easy it was for him; when others struggled to understand he only needed a glance, a second to think and he already had the answer. After all, if not for his intervention they'd still be fruitlessly looking for the missing restaurant critic, who as it appeared was murdered by the owner of the establishment that was shut down after his negative article. They finally found the body, rotting away in the middle of the abandoned construction, the half-finished building towering over the field of brown dust. Lestrade wondered how the body wasn't found yet with all the free space and open view, but that mystery was beyond his competence.

"Sherlock!" He shouted for the consulting detective, stopping his not very subtle retreat from the crime scene. "I still need you for a questioning!"

"You can't even question the suspect without me? That's pathetic, Detective Inspector."

"You are the one who's going to be questioned."

"How about later? I've lots of other cases. Unlike you." This was thrown over the shoulder as Sherlock Holmes stormed away, skillfully ducking under the tape enclosing the crime scene.

Lestrade's previous irritation was growing and gradually turning into anger; he frowned. It was starting to rain; light drizzle was getting into his eyes, making him squint to see properly. He followed Sherlock's path to one of the cars, a plain black one, with suspicion watching him get inside. He could only make out the figure of a man on the backseat before the door was slammed closed. The car didn't move which probably meant that the two men were talking; it might have been Sherlock's new client, a wealthy man in need of a private investigator. With that conclusion Lestrade disregarded the matter completely.

"Anderson, how much more time do you need?"

"I'll be done in a minute," the medic commented, not looking up from the body.

With nothing left to do the DI continued examining the surroundings. The rain was getting heavier with every minute, turning dirt into mud and covering all traces of the murderer – it was a good thing they didn't need them anymore. His gaze stopped on the unfinished building, all empty windows and plain brick walls, making him wonder when it would finally be demolished. He turned away, nothing interesting there, and then turned quickly back. In the rain it was easy to make a mistake but he thought he saw a figure of a man in one of the windows. There was no reason for anyone to be in that building. Knowing what to look for this time, his gaze moved slowly from one window to another, starting with the highest floor.

Nothing. It must have been just the play of shadows.

His gaze lowered and his attention caught something more entertaining.

"Hello," he said, his voice low, as he approached a beauty that had no place at the crime scene. He stopped on one side of the tape separating him from the object of his interest.

The young woman, clad in a tight black suit that subtly but seductively accented her curves, wavy dark hair falling in her face as her head was bowed, eyes on the screen of the blackberry in her hands, paid no attention to his greeting. He decided on a different tactic. Ducking under the tape he stepped closer to her.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he introduced himself and she finally tore her eyes from the screen and looked at him. Her expression was neutral if not slightly bored; the woman stared at him impassively. "What's a cutie like you doing at the crime scene?"

"This is not the crime scene," she said calmly, lowering her eyes as if to indicate on the spot of ground she was standing on. Technically she was right. He was not going to voice it though.

"What's your name, Miss?" He asked in his business voice instead, making it sound like an order.

She appeared thoughtful for a moment, looking away, and when her eyes settled back at him, she replied. "Aurora."

Lestrade was suspicious that the woman might be fooling him, he but ignored it and simply played along, hoping it'd get him the needed result. For a moment his eyes skimmed over the black car, just a few feet away from her – the one Sherlock disappeared into – but the tinted glass made it impossible to see what was inside.

"Is there anything you want, Detective Inspector?" Was there mocking in the way she addressed his position?

The words 'Your number would be lovely' died in his throat – and not because they were too crude; Lestrade was never good with flirting. But as she waited impatiently for an answer, his gaze momentary focused on the building behind her and he saw a figure in the window. Again. Now it was two windows to the left from where he'd first noticed it but disappeared as quickly.

"Detective Inspector?" Aurora called, frowning at him. She turned her head and followed his gaze in an attempt to understand what had caught his attention.

"Sorry," he said distractively, still searching with his eyes.

Then the door of the car opened, Sherlock storming off with his large coat billowing behind him from the sheer forcefulness of his stride. Lestrade didn't have time to make a guess about what had angered the consulting detective this much, as after a second the door on the other side, closest to the DI, was opening as well and a man stepped out. He felt Aurora stiffen beside him, facing the man.

"Sherlock!" The man called out; his voice was soft but heavy with authority of a person who was used to his orders been carried out immediately. He was ignored, which didn't sit well with him, if the tightness of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes was anything to go by. His sharp features turned into a cold unimpressive mask, only dark blue eyes radiating annoyance.

Sharply the man slammed the car door closed.

"Anne, find the surveillance record from yesterday. By the evening those as well as the ones from today have to be on my desk."

"Yes, sir." 'Aurora' replied readily.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Lestrade registered that he was right about her name not been Aurora, but a simple Anne; and this man, acting with such familiarity with Sherlock was actually her boss, and probably he should have trusted his instincts more and sent someone to check the building because now he had solid proof that this was not a shadow but a man. A man with a gun in his hand. All of that was going on in the background. The forefront of his thoughts was a blur of the sound of bullets hitting the dust and screams; and his body was reacting on impulse, rushing ahead, colliding with the mysterious man with sharp features and commanding voice, their combined weight prompted by lack of balance sent them both to the ground. The rain of bullets stopped as they were hidden behind the car now, out of the view of the murderer.

"Donavan!" He shouted from their impromptu cover, pinning the man with his weight to the ground because from the moment his back touched the dirt he started struggling, trying to get free. "Send people in! Find him! Get him!"

There was a commotion as a group of constables, led by the female sergeant, ran to the building. Lestrade knew they wouldn't find anyone there – it had been too long already, too much time wasted, too much time gifted to the murderer to get away. He still kept the man, the one who the hit man was after pinned to the ground, one hand on his chest pushing with force, and the other on the ground, holding himself from crushing the man. Lestrade felt the mud under his fingers, felt the droplets of rain, which grew even stronger, sliding underneath the collar of his shirt – all of it was unpleasant, but it was fine, he went to the Metropolitan Police because that's what he wanted.

The struggling under him stopped and Lestrade looked down to find the reason why. The man had given up on his fruitless attempts to throw Lestrade off of him and was calmly lying there, staring defiantly at the DI.

"Hello," Lestrade's voice croaked, his throat going dry and body heating up in a second despite the chilling rain.

Blue eyes, _sapphire blue_ his idiotically romantic mind supplied, bore into his hazel ones, clear irritation and a command in that insistent gaze. They caught his attention, drove him in, didn't let him look away. The man was probably the same age as him, maybe one or a few years younger, but the regal air around him, even lying in bloody dirt, made even older people feel inferior. His features, sharp and aristocratic, schooled into an expression of indifference – do not mistake it for obedience – were handsome. Dark sandy hair carefully styled and slicked back were wet from the rain with an unruly strand escaping and curling on his right temple. Both his hands for the lack of better place were bent at the elbows and lying palms up on the both sides of his head, the mud staining white cuffs. Lestrade vividly remembered them gripping his shoulders as they fell.

"Detective Inspector?" One eyebrow rose in a scandalized manner – a clear demand to get off. "Do you mind?"

But Lestrade wasn't listening; yet again he got distracted but this time he had a pretty good reason for it. There was something pointy poking him in his thigh. His gaze slid down from the man's face, slowly following the line of his neck, absently noting the whiteness of the skin, then down his side, past his waist and to…

"Oh, an umbrella," he muttered.

"Detective Inspector," the man insisted.

Lestrade, with one last glance down at him, stood up carefully and offered him a hand. Ignoring it and instead relying on the umbrella, the man lifted himself, every movement smooth and regal.

"Sir? Do I need to call the ambulance?" The woman, obviously his PA, inquired worriedly.

"No, thank you. I'm not hurt physically. Just suffered mental abuse." He narrowed his eyes, looking Lestrade up and down, then made a futile attempt to dust off his clothes. Wet with rain and brown sticky mud they resisted his insistent brushing. "And a rude invasion of personal space."

"I saved your life," Lestrade replied, impressed and annoyed by the cold attitude.

"I hardly think my life was in any danger," the carelessness in his voice made wonders for riling the DI. "The killer was obviously an amateur. A professional wouldn't have needed more than one shot. And," he made a pause for Lestrade to complete his eye roll. "It's not necessarily me he was after."

Lestrade snorted, "Yeah, because he started the fire once you stepped out of the car and precisely at the spot you were standing at."

The man looked at him flatly, regarded the DI with something akin to disdain, though it seemed like he was trying to contain it as well as let Lestrade feel it – which made the DI think that the disdain was mostly feigned.

"Anne, we are leaving," he turned to the PA who nodded eagerly and went to circle the car to reach the door on the other side.

"No you are not," Lestrade announced, grabbing the man's wrist. His fingers smeared the dirt all over his coat, which he smirked at in silent satisfaction.

"Excuse me?" Now it was two eyebrows rising in inquiry and Lestrade's mind happily supported an unneeded thought – the scandalized look suited this man.

"Someone has just made an assassination attempt. You were the target. Still are since the assassination was unsuccessful." Lestrade's voice had risen and his gesticulation had grown hectic as if he was talking to an insolent child.

"Thank you for your input, Detective Inspector, but I assure you that I have the situation under control."

"No you don't," the DI scoffed. "I'm taking this case. We'll find this hit man but until then you are under my personal protection."

The banter was over; Lestrade, serious in his element, readjusted his hold on the man's wrist and walked them to the police car. The man didn't protest, didn't struggle, just followed in silence. He's probably glaring daggers at the back of my head, Lestrade thought but didn't bother to check.

"Sir?" The confused voice of Anne was heard from where she still stood by the car.

"Cancel the meeting this evening. Take care of the paperwork. I'll give you further instructions later." The man replied. He didn't sound angry or even irritated, he didn't sound anything at all – his voice was emotionless but pleasantly polite.

His grip on the wrist less firm, as Lestrade knew now that the man was following if not willingly than compliantly, he led them to the car, opened the backdoor and with a hand on the back of his neck he guided the man inside. A moment later he got in the driver's seat, acting ignorant to Donavan with her report on the search of the abandoned building – he knew they had not found anything. Her confused glances went past him as well.

As he drove through London streets he let himself glance at the rear view mirror. His passenger was staring right back at him as if he had spent the whole ride waiting to meets his eyes; he was silent and waited for Lestrade to speak first.

"You didn't oppose to me taking you away," he commented, eyes returning to the road.

"I did. It fell on deaf ears."

"At first. Then you just kept quiet."

"I gathered it would be foolish of me to waste my energy on persuading such a… stubborn person as yourself." The pause in the sentence was a clear indication that 'stubborn' wasn't the word he originally wanted to use but his upbringing overpowered the mere annoyance.

"Good then," Lestrade shrugged; strangely he was fine with it. If the man wanted to mock him, let him, Lestrade was an all-sufficient person and the opinion of the others didn't matter to him much.

"So, Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man drawled the name with a smirk. "Where are you taking me?"

"My place for now. The hit man must know where you live, so you need to stay away for some time. We'll find him soon and you'll be free to go your own way."

"Soon?" The man repeated with a chuckle, radiating disbelief.

"Yes, soon." Lestrade affirmed with force.

They lapsed back in silence, the man's eyes watching the DI.

"Detective Inspector?" The man inquired after a moment of silence. His tone, with a teasing lurking behind politeness, made Lestrade half turn, looking at him from the corner of his eye. "Aren't you overlooking an important detail?"

"I might. Care to tell me which exactly?" The DI said lightly. They stopped at a red light and he turned fully to observe his passenger. The man just looked at him, waiting for Lestrade to figure it out himself. Lestrade smiled. "Who are you? I figure you'd be reluctant to answer, since you are obviously an important man and all that…"

"Mycroft Holmes at your service," the man extended his hand over the car seat.

Lestrade stared at the hand in silent astonishment. The last name ringed in his ears, repeating like a broken record. _Holmes_. He recovered, not as quickly as he wanted and surely not as quickly as good manners required.

"Gregory Lestrade."

They shook hands and the man, not a stranger anymore, Mycroft, leaned back on the seat, relaxing and looking out of the side window. The car behind them honked, urging him to turn around and continue the drive to his home. Oh well, that must be interesting, Lestrade concluded. And if he was bringing this man to his home just for the sake of taking him home, so be it.

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><p><strong>AN:** Next chapter will be in a week. For now, leave me a review, please:)


	2. Getting Familiar With Mr Holmes

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

**A/N: **And again I remind you, my dear readers, that the story takes place years before the start of the series, thus the character are younger so may seem OOC. But I blame it on their inexperience:)

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 2.<strong>** Getting Familiar With Mr. Holmes**_

That must be interesting, Mycroft thought as he looked around the small cluttered living room. Of course he followed the persistent DI not because he had to; one call, one wave of his hand and the situation would have been resolved. He had a meeting planned for the evening but he asked the PA to cancel it, the reason behind it less than dignified. Mycroft was intrigued. He allowed himself to be led by his curiosity, let the insistent charismatic policeman drag him away.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft knew about him, reports on Sherlock's activity included him quite often. Lestrade was promoted to DI half a year before, approximately months after he started working with Sherlock Holmes. Not that there was much enthusiasm on the part of the police at first, some of the policemen still found the consulting detective a nuisance, but Lestrade quickly realized the potential of the arrogant young man who took the crime solving as a game, but was too good in that game. That thing alone was enough to make Mycroft notice him. A person who can stand his brother for so long deserved appreciation; moreover Lestrade wasn't actually talentless in his job.

But the best thing about him, Mycroft admitted to himself, was that the man was good-looking. Very. If not for that small trait of his he'd have never got the pleasure of getting closer to Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft leaned comfortably on the cushions of the old sofa, taking in the interior. Everything was simple, small coffee table with papers scattered all over it, a few different colored mugs squeezed onto the surface here and there; the rest of the furniture consisted of two armchairs, a TV and a bookcase at the furthest wall. The mess was awful, as if no one had cleaned up for months, which probably was the case. With a sigh Mycroft tore his eyes from the particularly big pile of shirts on the floor by the window and turned to face the doorway as he heard the nearing footsteps.

"So Mr. Holmes," the DI frowned. "Do you mind if I call you Mycroft? It's too weird seeing as you are the second Holmes I encountered for the day."

Mycroft nodded stiffly, not pleased with the arrangement but allowing it nonetheless. He wasn't comfortable with familiarity, but in case of association with his brother he could allow Lestrade this small concession.

"Mycroft." Lestrade pronounced, testing how the name sounded. "I take it you are a relative, aren't you?" That wasn't a question Mycroft expected, since the moment he entered the flat he waited for a questioning about the reasons of the failed assassination attempt, not his relation to Sherlock.

"My younger brother," he started stating Sherlock's status in passing, so it wouldn't look like he was actually answering the question. "Has been working with you for some time already, hasn't he?"

"Brother," Lestrade nodded to him. "Interesting. You are kind of similar."

Mycroft couldn't conceal a cringe at the comment.

"As for your question, he has been helping me with some cases. No matter how infuriating he can get, Sherlock's help is invaluable." His unconcern to Mycroft's reaction to him offending Sherlock in passing was rather reckless but refreshing. No need to tell, Mycroft didn't mind; but still most people minded their every word when around him.

"Detective Inspector."

"Gregory." Lestrade interrupted. "I'm calling you by your first name, it's only fair if you do the same."

"Gregory then," Mycroft acknowledged with a small smile. "You brought me here. What are your further intentions?"

"Well, I phoned my colleagues. They started the case, so the police are looking for the man. It's getting late, until morning you'll have to stay here. Then we'll find a nice place to hide you."

"That's stupid," he replied simply. Not even a muscle on his face moved, impassive and calm.

Lestrade frowned. "No, it's not."

"Yes, it is. I should not be here." Mycroft said, but he didn't sound insistent or displeased; if anything his tone was more teasing than anything.

"Too late for you to leave," Lestrade replied lightly, not bothered by it at all.

Mycroft watched him, not bothering to reply. The man was handsome, in his own unique way. His hair were messed up because of a habit of running his fingers through it, and there was stubble on his face. Normally Mycroft would not find it attractive, but for this man and this man alone it gave away a feeling of strength and masculinity. So for Mycroft, who always found powerful men ridiculously attractive, this air of strength about him was very tempting, his raggedy and messed up look unusual for the aristocrat.

"Well then, nothing I can do about it. Seems like I have to stay," Mycroft said nonchalantly, looking away but not missing Lestrade's smirk. From the corner of his eye he watched as the man stepped into the room and made an attempt to tidy up the place. He wasn't very successful in it; the action of picking up shirts from the floor and displacing them on the armchair only gave an illusion of cleaning.

"How about a drink?" Lestrade asked, abandoning the task completely.

"Yes, please."

The DI disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, at least that's what Mycroft assumed. After a moment of consideration he followed, on his way discarding his jacket, making a contribution to the global mess of the place. A report that his PA, whatever her name was, sent to him half an hour ago stated that it was quite possible for him to devote his evening, night and early morning, to communication with the DI without irreparable harm to the state of his business affairs. She knew well that he needed some time off – so why not spend it in the company of a charming policeman. That woman was too perceptive for her own good; on the other hand, if she wasn't then he'd have fired her long ago.

"I've got beer, but I take it your aristocratic highness wouldn't want something so common?" Lestrade asked from his position by the fridge. The sound was muffled as his head was obscured by the white door, one hand on the handle holding it open. "I can find some wine, if you want to?"

Wordlessly, Mycroft stepped close behind him and reached over the man's shoulder. Lestrade's head half-turned, watching the movement until Mycroft's fingers clutched the bottle neck of the beer and tugged it out carefully.

"This will do," he commented and disappeared from the kitchen back to the room.

Lestrade shrugged, took a bottle of his own and followed the man.

Mycroft watched him from his comfortable position, occupying a large part of the sofa. Lestrade had taken off his own jacket the moment they entered the flat, now the sleeves of his white creased shirt were rolled to his forearms and the undone tie dangled from his neck. The whole unkempt look suited him well.

"So what do we do now, Detective Inspector?"

"Gregory. I told you to call me Gregory."

"I do not follow anyone's orders," Mycroft replied confidently, but his blue eyes twinkled playfully. "Unless I want to."

Lestrade smirked and flopped on the sofa, squeezing his body in the small space left by the other man, which left them pressed together tightly, Mycroft's calves of his crossed legs to Lestrade's thighs.

"Will I get an answer to my question, Gregory?"

"I think…that mostly depends on you." Lestrade replied, moving so that he was sitting with his back to the armrest, almost fully facing the other. "Who are you? A man important enough to be assassinated…"

"Please kindly note that technically I wasn't assassinated. That'd have been terrible."

"Oh yes, I can't imagine what my bosses would do to me if some high class person was killed on my watch."

"I can imagine," Mycroft snorted and took a first swig of the beer. It was bad he had to admit, but that didn't affect his mood.

"Well, you must be someone influential. You have a pretty girl as a personal assistant," he explained his conclusion. "Who by the way lied to me today. How do you choose your employees?"

"Lied? Oh dear…" He feigned shock.

"Yes," Lestrade nodded significantly. "She said her name was Aurora."

"It might as well be," Mycroft shrugged. He smiled at the genuine surprise on the other man's face.

"But you called her Anne."

"Because it's convenient. Short."

Lestrade stared at him, speechless. Then he frowned, "What about her real name then?"

"It's a state secret." Mycroft replied, amusement in his voice at having to point out what to him was obvious.

"But she's your PA. No one knows her name, but you freely tell your name."

"Who says it's real?" Mycroft smiled with mischief.

"Isn't it?"

He remained silent for a moment, giving the DI some time to freely imagine whatever his mind could come up with, before ruining the fantasy. "It is my real name."

"Then why..?"

"Well, when I just started my career there was no need for a pseudonym and when I gained enough power to get serious enemies it was too late because my real name was known already," Mycroft explained. It seemed like a casual talk, may be classified as a heart to heart if he was opening the stranger to secrets he had never told anyone. It actually was that way with the exception that those things were unknown facts not because they were vitally important, but just because no one bothered to ask them before. These were insignificant small facts that no one wanted to know.

The silence that settled for the next moments gave Mycroft time to think over the situation. When he allowed the DI to drag him away and bring him to his flat he was shamelessly counting on a nice one night stand with the policeman, but time passed and they were simply talking. The man was asking questions, not prying but the ones that needed full open responses. It was nice but also confusing, because Mycroft knew the man wanted him as much as Mycroft wanted him.

"Did you flirt with my PA?" He asked, voice laced with teasing suspicion.

"No," Lestrade denied quickly. Not very smoothly.

"Then why all the questions about her?"

"Because I'm flirting with _you_." That was much smoother.

"You are not good at it." Or maybe not.

"Good or not, it works."

Mycroft sent him a doubtful glance, but just for the look of it; it didn't take a genius to understand why even with those terrible flirting skills the man still had enough conquests – he had _charm_.

"You know what I've been thinking?" Lestrade asked, leaning closer to the other man. Mycroft decided that he had a pretty good idea, but that probably wasn't what the man was going to say. So he asked innocently:

"What?"

"You are just so young," the DI said while his right hand inconspicuously landed on Mycroft's knee. Mycroft stifled his laugh at how absolutely _not _subtle that move was, but he didn't want to give the impression that it was unwanted. "Too young to have an important position."

"I'm a prodigy."

"Oh…" Lestrade breathed out while his hand made slow circles on Mycroft's thigh. This man doesn't have a clue about subtlety, Mycroft thought with amusement. He played ignorant to the other man's actions. "Does it run in the family?"

"Don't ask about my brother while making sexual advances on me."

There was a moment, a pause, Lestrade resisting from spluttering and looking undignified in front of the man he was trying to impress. And wondered if he was failing spectacularly at that or if the situation could still be saved. Judging by Mycroft's reaction everything was going fine, but by his own standards the conversation was far from smooth. But the man was strange, a touch eccentric; which Lestrade should have expected, seeing how he had been socializing with Sherlock Holmes for some time now.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said quietly, leaning closer to him with a hand on Mycroft's lap as leverage. "You are an interesting man."

Mycroft lifted both eyebrows. "There were so many ways you could have turned my comment to your advantage and that's what you come up with?"

"Sorry, I just speak what comes to my mind." Lestrade replied, not baffled by the lapse.

"That's your strength and weakness at the same time. It makes you honest, mostly." Mycroft analyzed. His voice was soft, words lazily falling from his lips as he regarded the man. "At the same time it could intrude with your job. It's a good thing you're not a politician."

A nice throaty laugh was the answer to his words, making Mycroft smile in return.

"I promise, at work I'm not this reckless," the DI replied as his laughter died down.

"I like reckless," Mycroft commented off-handedly, glancing away for a moment. The corners of his mouth quirked into a smile though. When his eyes returned to Lestrade there was a spark in them.

"Nice to know."

_Nice to know_. Mycroft repeated in his head; the man had no flirting skills at all. But the tone and the intonations worked their magic instead. The DI's voice was low and slightly hoarse, probably because of the years of smoking. It shouldn't have been arousing, Mycroft preferred his lovers moderate and aristocratic, without the flaws that could be noticed at a fleeting meeting – he didn't need them for longer than the duration of a night. In short, he chose people similar to him. Gregory Lestrade was nothing like that. It was very refreshing and intriguing. Probably dangerous, in a sense of feelings, but Mycroft was ready to take this risk.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" Lestrade asked, returning Mycroft's attention to him. He was sitting even closer now, having moved while the other man was lost in his thoughts.

For a short moment Mycroft considered replying 'You', but that would have sounded like a line from a cliché romantic movie with a script writer who severely lacked imagination. It didn't matter that this would also have been the most accurate answer, so instead he asked:

"Why did you decide to be a policeman?" Far from original but not as bad as the first answer that came to his mind.

"That's easy," Lestrade said with a smile. "I wanted to help people."

That simple? Mycroft didn't ask that. He just looked into the hazel eyes of the DI, the eyes that spoke of honesty and inner strength. Without thinking, letting a minute impulse guide him, Mycroft crossed the small remaining distance between them, gently attaching his lips to the other man's. When, after a moment, he leaned back and opened his eyes those hazels stared dreamily back at him. They half closed again and a firm hand on the back of Mycroft's head guided him in another kiss.

"It's getting late," Lestrade whispered into the small space between them as they parted. He glanced at the window; it was dark outside and rain pattered on the glass, but his gaze quickly returned to Mycroft's face, a small quirk of the man's kissed lips, the redness on his cheeks and the brightness of his blue eyes.

"We should probably go to bed," the DI clarified.

No matter how crude that sounded, Mycroft let the other man slowly pull him to his feet by one hand and lead him to the bedroom.

**)(  
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Lestrade woke up because something felt wrong. It was a silly little feeling of suspicion in the back of his mind, whispering that the time for rest was up and there were things that required his attention. That was probably a habit he got from his time as a detective; he didn't have any stories to tell about what some called intuition that had saved his live more than once but it was a nice aid in the busy world he lived in. As he opened his eyes he was greeted with a pleasant darkness, but then he tore his face from the pillow and looked around the room. Soft morning light was streaming through the windows without curtains (he never bothered to get them since he moved in, which was quite a long time ago) lighting up the room. He held no interest in his own room, so he lowered his gaze from the window to the other side of the bed, which was empty. Empty. When it should not be that way. Unless an important person like Mycroft Holmes decided to make breakfast; somehow Lestrade doubted that.

He sat up, a little unstable since he was still sleepy – Lestrade had never been a morning person. And then came the sound that brought him back to his senses with the speed of light. It was soft, barely audible even in the silence of his flat. It was the front door been closed.

Without thinking Lestrade jumped out of the bed, grabbed a pair of jeans from the floor and, tugging them on, he rushed out of the bedroom into the narrow corridor. He grabbed a shirt from the armchair in the living room (who said that throwing your things all over the place wasn't useful?) and without reducing his speed ran out of the flat on a chase after the fleeing Mycroft Holmes.

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><p><strong>AN:** Next chapter will be the last.

As any author I'd be very happy to get your reviews:)


	3. Getting Lost With Mr Holmes

**A/N: **This is the last chapter. It also happens to be my favourite:)

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 3. Getting Lost With Mr. Holmes<strong>_

Mycroft was an early riser. Even without an alarm clock to wake him in the mornings he was up almost as early as the sun. It was a useful skill with a life like his and in his field of work. This morning not being an exception, Mycroft woke up to the rays of the rising sun; they didn't reach the bed yet, did not hit his eyes but gave enough light to take in his surroundings. It was a large room, the sensation of space intensified by the lack of furniture, from his position on the bed only a small bedside table was visible as well as the wardrobe at the periphery. Everything else was just the floor with clothes scattered around, books and papers thrown around randomly. The memories of the owner of the flat replaced the thoughts of the interior, making Mycroft aware of the second person present next to him on the bed.

Lying on his back, sheets half covering him, Mycroft turned his head on a pillow. Gregory, Mycroft thought he already had the right to call the man by his first name, was still sleeping peacefully, his head practically buried in the pillow and his bare back exposed to the warm spring air. Mycroft's eyes traced his limbs, seemingly thrown haphazardly, stopping on the right arm that was resting across Mycroft's waist, not gripping but holding and excluding any attempts to escape.

Involuntarily his right hand lifted, knuckles grazing over the other man's cheek, a feathery touch grazing the stubble. It didn't feel unpleasant, on the contrary, however unusual it was for Mycroft, it felt nice. But, no time for sentiments, Mycroft stopped and extracted himself carefully from the weak embrace. Quietly he gathered his clothes and dressed up as neatly as was possible in the situation.

He left the bedroom, not sparing a glance to the man on the bed – the image imprinted in his mind already. In the living room Mycroft checked his voice mail, paying most attention to the PA's messages informing him that the police had captured a man they suspected in the assassination attempt. In the next message she informed her boss about a meeting he had to attend that day. Nodding to himself Mycroft gave the small flat one last look and let himself out, carefully closing the front door and cringing at the soft click it made. Safely outside, Mycroft made his way down the corridor and to the stairs.

Mycroft was taking out his phone again to make a call to Anne and ask her to prepare the needed documents in his office two flights down Lestrade's floor, when he heard hasty steps thudding down the staircase after him. He picked up his pace, hoping to avoid confrontation with any of the other inhabitants of the building.

"Mycroft!" A familiar voice shouted, making the man in question stop in his tracks. Holding onto the handrail Mycroft bent his neck to look upward and saw Lestrade, leaning over the handrail a floor above. "Where do you think you are going?"

"I'm a busy person, Gregory." Mycroft replied. "I have a lot of work to do."

"Are you crazy?" Lestrade exclaimed while descending down the stairs. "There is a hit man walking around. And you are his target."

Mycroft speechlessly took in the other man's appearance. It was obvious that the man had thrown on the first things that came to his hand, which consisted of a simple plain shirt, only half buttoned, a pair of jeans and shoes with shoelaces untied. It looked unexpectedly attractive.

"Mycroft? Does your silence mean that you agree with me and will return to the flat calmly?" Lestrade frowned at Mycroft's spaced out look. "Or you are just dazed by my handsomeness?"

"Of course not," Mycroft scoffed returning to his senses. "I'm leaving."

He turned to do just that but Lestrade caught his wrist just like the previous day to stop him. Then the DI's palm slid down his wrist to hold his hand, the touch becoming more intimate. Mycroft spared him a glance from the corner of his eye.

"I was informed that your colleagues captured the suspect."

"Suspect? Until they prove that he's that guy who tried to kill you, you are not safe. You should stay here."

"Oh, please," Mycroft drawled with a roll of his eyes. He fixed his gaze on the DI. "Don't pretend like you brought me to your flat to ensure my safety."

Lestrade frowned, first in confusion then in understanding and he nodded curtly. His hand didn't let go of Mycroft's though.

"I admit, partly I did it because I found you attractive. Very," he made sure to keep eye contact as he said that. "But _partly_ because I actually feel responsible for you. I want to ensure that you won't be shot the moment I let you out of my sight."

"There is no need to worry about that," Mycroft untangled his fingers from Lestrade's hold and took the last flight of stairs down. On the way to the door he threw over his shoulder. "Though your concern is very sweet."

Lestrade, still in shock for a short moment, stared at Mycroft's back. But, he reminded himself, it was not the time for flirting, and followed the other man out. By the time he was standing at the stone steps Mycroft had already hailed a cab and was getting in. Promptly he jumped inside when the car was just starting to move.

Mycroft spared a glance to Lestrade as the vehicle started gaining speed. If the DI wanted to stalk him so much, there was nothing he could do about it. On the other hand, he was not as opposed to it as he made it seem.

"Where are we going?" Lestrade asked as soon as he caught his breath. He settled on the backseat unnecessarily close to the other man. "Since I'm going wherever you are, you might as well tell me."

"My office. As I mentioned before," a pointed glare accented the words. "I have a busy job. I'm behind schedule already."

"Well, sorry for interrupting your routine, which I'm sure is pretty boring, so that I can save your life."

"Better say, so that you can get me in your bed."

"True," Lestrade agreed with a sigh. He smiled. "Didn't hear you complaining."

"I wasn't," Mycroft smirked back. Then he turned away, so that Lestrade wouldn't see his smirk blooming into a full smile. He viewed the shop windows pass by, noticing in the distance a flower shop that his mother favored. The cab made a turn and the shop disappeared from view completely, stirring a memory in Mycroft's mind. Something was wrong. He looked straight through the front window at the road ahead. And he knew what that _something _was.

Lestrade sat at his side, clueless and relaxed. Mycroft's mind was swirling with ideas, but none of them was good enough to get them both out of this situation. Feigning nonchalance he reached for the phone in the pocket of his jacket, from the corner of his eye he noticed the cabby's eyes following his move with alertness that should not be there. And then someone on the street was shouting, the cabby was swearing and the cab slowed to a stop abruptly, a sound of tires on the still wet asphalt overpowering all other sounds for the passengers. Using the fortunate distraction, Mycroft grabbed Lestrade by the shirt and tugged him out of the car. Holding onto Lestrade's shoulder he dashed into the nearest alley and ran.

"What the hell?" Lestrade shouted, a step behind him. Despite his confusion he didn't drop the pace and followed Mycroft's winding way through the alley, to the narrow way between houses, another alley, across the street, away from the cab.

"He was going the wrong way. The address I gave was in the other direction," Mycroft clarified.

That was enough to answer all questions. Right address, wrong direction, a guy who attempted to kill Mycroft the previous evening. They were lucky a mindless pedestrian decided to cross the street right in front of their cab. Well, lucky for them, not for the poor bloke. Lestrade hoped he was fine after the impact.

"Stupid amateurs," Lestrade muttered under his breath. "Don't know how to organize a proper assassination and we got stuck running around the city."

Mycroft chuckled but refrained from commenting in order to save his breath; he was never fond of sports, so his running skills left much to be desired. But then the sound of a gunshot echoed from the bare walls of the narrow side street, spurring his strength.

Lestrade pulled sharply on his hand, somehow his palm moved from the man's shoulder to rest against Lestrade's palm, their fingers intertwined. The impulse made him falter and stumble back, but the DI held him up and kept him from falling. At that moment Mycroft realized how stupid he had acted; he rushed away without thinking through their escape, which led to their pursuer cutting a path at some point and appearing ahead of them. Lestrade stopped him just in time and dragged Mycroft in the other direction, making another turn just at the asphalt under their feet got scratched by bullets.

At that point Mycroft's mind, incited by the realization of his foolishness more and more, started to panic. He was too self-confident; his ignorance, naiveté in some sense, made him underestimate the danger. So many times he had been a target of an unsuccessful assassination, he got used to his life being in danger; as well as the protection of his bodyguard and even the small personal squad. But when he visited Sherlock, the PA and the driver were the only people accompanying him, because his brother hated the crowd, because Sherlock always teased him for showing off, because he needed Sherlock to be on good terms with him at least this one time. Much good it did for him. Now, his egoistical thinking to blame, Mycroft's life was in actual mortal danger. Worse even, he dragged another person into it; a good man who didn't deserve to be shot by a maniac with a grudge against Mycroft Holmes in a deserted alleyway. At least there were no more passers-by; it was still too early on a weekend for it.

Mycroft felt fear slowly crawling on him, consuming his rational thoughts; his heart beat so fast and so loud in his chest – it was the only sound in his ears. Somewhere, seemingly so far away, he could recognize music and a familiar voice, but it didn't register for long enough to be analyzed in his chaotic mind. The grey and blue and green, the colors of streets they passed before his eyes, but he could not distinguish where they were running any more. He felt like he'd lost his sense of direction; they were lost in a maze of London streets.

A tug on his hand, another sharp turn and Mycroft's body was slammed into the wall. Hard. Hands gripping his forearms with enough force to bruise, shaking him.

"Mycroft!" Lestrade was shouting right in his face, bringing the other man out from his blind panic back to sanity. As soon as the DI recognized the sense returning to Mycroft's eyes, he let go, hand seeking Mycroft's again and ran, taking the other man with him.

Mycroft gulped and breathed deeply, mind restoring the order of thoughts, Lestrade's hand and his presence on the whole anchoring to the semblance of calm he managed to reach.

"Turn your phone off," Lestrade shouted to him, turning for a second to look into Mycroft's unnaturally pale face.

"What?"

"Your phone. It won't stop ringing."

So that's where the music was coming from. At least that was clear and, thankfully, Mycroft wasn't hallucinating; the music existed, but it stopped as his hand unsteadily reached into his pocket. Knowing it'd be better to turn the phone off since it might start ringing later at a critical moment, such as if they'd need to hide, Mycroft ran his finger across the screen brining the device to life. He had four missed calls and a message. The text came last, just seconds ago. Mycroft opened it. He stumbled as his concentration was on his hand movements instead of his legs for a moment, but Lestrade kept him from falling again.

The DI was about to make another turn but Mycroft didn't let him, pulling the other man along until they passed the turn. That gave their pursuer an advantage since he had a gun and such tactic left them in the line of fire long enough for him to take aim. Ignoring the dread such thoughts awakened, Mycroft bypassed another turn, overpowering Lestrade who attempted to tug him to a side alley.

"Mycroft!" The DI shouted, a question and worry in his tone. He was running out of breath as well.

"Trust me," Mycroft replied, the third turn was passed by.

The sound of bullets hitting the pavement ran shivers down his spine in the worst way possible.

"There," he muttered under his breath. His hand gripping Lestrade's so tightly the other man had probably lost the feeling in his fingers by this point, Mycroft tugged him into a side alley. It was so narrow the light of the still rising sun was not enough to light it.

As soon as they were hidden by the wall of the corner building he slowed down but didn't stop running. Ahead of them there was a figure of a man, positioned in the middle of the alley. Mycroft ducked to the side, Lestrade after him, gluing his body to the building wall.

The shot rung in the still morning air.

Lestrade's hold on him tightened as the DI jerked in an attempt to somehow protect Mycroft with his own body. But it was as useless as it was unneeded. The pursuer fell as he appeared at the mouth of the alley, his figure highlighted by the light coming from the street they had left seconds ago.

Mycroft breathed out a sigh of relief. Lestrade could feel how the other man's body relaxed behind him, but he still watched the new party cautiously. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he recognized Sherlock Holmes in the man standing in the other end of the alley.

Sherlock quickly crossed the alley as the pursuer groaned lowly; he was coming back to his senses, slowly trying to rise from the ground, one hand clutching the wound on his shoulder and the other fumbling for the gun he had dropped. The consulting detective impassively neared the man and hit him over the head with the back of his gun. The groaning stopped.

Relieved with assurance that it was over, Lestrade leaned on the wall by Mycroft's side. Tired, he slid down the dirty bricks to sit on the ground. He threw his head back, watching Mycroft.

"How did you get here?" Lestrade asked the younger Holmes, not taking his eyes from the older. Mycroft was slumped by the wall, leaning heavily on it, still catching his breath. As he noticed the DI's gaze he smiled weakly and put his right hand on the other man's shoulder, using it as a support, balancing his weight carefully.

"Since you, idiots," Sherlock replied, spitefully accenting the last word Lestrade knew addressed the police, but didn't have any energy to disagree. "Can't find a criminal for the life of you, I decided to take the investigation in my own hands."

"I take it," Mycroft said, his voice raspy as his chest hurt and it felt like there were thousands of needles driving in the inside of his throat with every breath he took. He hated physical exercise all the more for it. "The suspect they caught wasn't the actual murderer."

"No. Also because he was unsuccessful in his assignment it'd be more correct to say attempted murderer." Sherlock replied. He was crouching over the prone form of the man, inspecting his pockets.

"So you figured out that the murderer was still running free. Doesn't explain how you appeared here." Lestrade intruded, returning the conversation back on track. He was still exhausted but he was taking this running around London thing better than Mycroft, especially since it could be considered a part of his job.

"When the first attempt happened I was still on the crime scene," Sherlock started his explanation and Lestrade remembered that Mycroft stepped out of the car to stop his brother from leaving. He had never thought about where the consulting detective had disappeared to after that, he just concluded that he had left. "I was at the window he was shooting from before Donavan appeared so, thankfully, I had some time to examine it in peace. I found clues, however small they were, which helped me find the man. Then it was just a matter of following him as he followed you. I watched how he stopped a cab and, using a gun, threatened the cabby. So he took the car and, because he already knew that you were at Lestrade's place," there he gave a pointed look to Mycroft that didn't leave a doubt that he was aware of what exactly had happened there. "He only had to wait for you to come out. I admit neither he nor I expected Lestrade to rush after you like that. Probably you left quite an impression."

Mycroft didn't dignify it with an answer, used to his brother's mocking.

"And again," it was Lestrade who interrupted the silence. "Doesn't explain why you are at the right place at the very right time."

Sherlock, who by this time had finished the search of the unconscious man, was now standing in front of them, hands crossed. His eyes swept over Lestrade's form and he frowned.

"What are you wearing?"

Lestrade heard Mycroft's snort and felt the hand on his shoulder falter as the other man contained his laughter. During the chase his already rumpled look transferred into the whole 'I rushed out of my house like it was on fire' look. It was close to it, anyway. So what if his shirt was half buttoned, part of the buttons haven fallen off, it was dirty and creased. So what if his jeans got a few tears that were not a part of the original design and were so dirty he considered just throwing them away and his belt was unbuckled because he simply didn't have time for that when he left the flat in the chase for Mycroft Holmes? He was sure that his hair, sweaty sticking to his forehead and standing in all directions at the nape, completed the look.

"I rather like it," Mycroft commented and Lestrade felt his fingers run through his hair, messing it even more.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I sent Mycroft a message."

"What?" Lestrade asked, momentary distracted by the gentle tugging at his hair. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back more.

"As I said," the consulting detective was becoming irritated. "I was following him while he followed you. I lost you when you started the mad chase, taking one blind turn after another. But I figured it won't take much time to trace Mycroft with the GPS in his phone."

"You know the password?" Mycroft asked, but there was not much wonder in his voice.

"Knowing you, it's easy to guess. So I traced you, figured out the best place to meet up with you and sent a text. Easy." Sherlock looked bored as he explained, but his eyes shone and a smile threatened to bloom. The corners of his lips continued quirking upwards no matter how he wanted to suppress it. He was pleased with himself. "Also I made a call to the Yard. Your team should be here shortly."

"Thank you," Lestrade breathed out, looking him straight in the eye.

Sherlock nodded, holding his gaze. Then his eyes traveled upward and settled on his older brother.

"You okay?"

"Yes, thank you for your concern."

No mocking, no teasing, not even a bit of resentment and Lestrade felt stupid for assuming that Sherlock had simply left after his brother was almost killed the day before. They didn't get along, but that didn't mean that they didn't love each other. The Holmes brothers cared and looked out for one another no matter how many times they got into arguments and proclaimed their hate to each other. For a moment they were like a normal family in which siblings didn't try to stare one another down at every meeting.

"You should try running in the mornings. Maybe then you wouldn't be so weak," Sherlock commented, with one sentence dissolving the seriousness of the atmosphere.

Instead of giving a sarcastic retort though Mycroft let out a dry laugh.

"I'll take that in consideration."

They stayed in silence like that, Lestrade on the ground with Mycroft standing near him, the other man's hand massaging his shoulder, running through his hair and caressing his nape. His gaze was unfocused, staring at the wall across, so it seemed like the action was unconscious. Sherlock was standing a few feet away, keeping an eye on the still unconscious man on the ground; he also willed himself not to look in the direction of the two lovers – the attraction between them was too obvious for his comfort. They all waited for the police.

A light rain had started, grey clouds hiding the morning sun from view. The air grew colder as the heavy drops poured down at them. Mycroft's hand stilled and Lestrade felt a shudder run through his body. He'd love to show his gentlemanly side to the other man, but that was impossible since he himself was only wearing a thin shirt and jeans.

"Didn't you have an umbrella?" He asked, glancing up.

"I suppose I left it at your flat."

"How unfortunate. You'll probably have to come back to my place again to get it."

Mycroft smiled and, tired of holding his body upright when his muscles were screaming from exhaustion, slid down the wall, not caring for the state of his suit for once. He leaned onto Lestrade slightly. So maybe the DI was not as bad at flirting as he let on.

"Yes. I seems like I'll have to," Mycroft smirked, at which Lestrade smiled and Sherlock groaned.

_**The End**_

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><p><strong>AN: **This was my first time writing a chasing scene and I loved it. So exciting and interesting. I hope I did it well.

I'd be very happy to get a review from you, my dear readers:)


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